‘Yes, you know, a secret cupboard or drawer, could be either. Old houses like this one always have concealments, usually in the kitchen. Don’t you have them down on Heimö?’

A vague memory from her childhood flashes past; her cousins showing her something behind the wainscoting in her aunt’s kitchen. A secret, forbidden storage cupboard that a conspiratorially solemn Finn had presented to her while Odd and Einar kept watch at the door. Without touching anything, Finn had let her glimpse the hidden treasure: a brown envelope, a wad of notes held together by a thick red rubber band, a pair of gold earrings and a handful of rings. Excitement at being let in on the secret had set Karen’s arms and legs humming, aided by the certain knowledge that Aunt Ingeborg would have their hides if she found out what they were up to.

One time they’d shown her the secret treasure trove, never again. It had never occurred to her other houses might have similar secret compartments.

‘No, not that I’m aware,’ she replies. ‘Are you telling me everyone on Noorö has a secret stash?’

Byle laughs.

‘Not everyone, obviously, but they’re fairly common, though I doubt they’re much in use nowadays. They kind of stopped serving their purpose once the police and customs agents found out people had them. But older people like them because they think they’ll be more difficult to find for a junkie scrambling for something to sell.’

Or for a forensic technician from the south, Karen adds inwardly.

*

Ten minutes later, Byle has tapped walls, inspected floorboards, palpated dado panels, opened cupboards, traced joints with his fingers and compared inner and outer measurements with Karen watching in fascination from a kitchen chair.

Now he turns to her and sighs.

‘I’m sorry if I promised too much. Either there’s nothing here or it’s too bloody well hidden.’

This is the first curse word she has heard escape Thorstein Byle’s lips; she immediately feels her shoulders relax. Their meeting with the local priest, Erling Arve, made it abundantly clear that Byle’s not only a colleague she has to stroke the right way to ensure local cooperation, he’s apparently also a dedicated churchgoer. It’s tiring enough to be polite in general – to always have to guard her tongue to keep the cursing to a minimum is enough to make her face feel stiff. The next moment, she is snapped out of her reverie.

Thorstein Byle is down on all fours in front of a large oakwood cabinet full of plates and glasses. He has already searched it once, but now he has pushed his hand in under the base and pressed something.

‘Bingo!’